Then, to Daphne’s dismay, the band began to play, the bar was opened, and people began to eat and drink. She tensed, feeling the uncomfortable, unwanted craving rack through her. Just one drink. Just one cupcake. She watched as her twin, Audrey, picked up a bowl of the wrecked croquembouche balls and popped one into her husband’s mouth, laughing as Reese juggled the baby. Yeah, that was pretty much a trifecta of things she couldn’t have: sweets, drinks, and a man that loved her.
She sighed.
Gretchen and Hunter moved out onto the dance floor as the band began to play Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud,” and then a hand slid to Daphne’s waist. “You look like you need to get away,” Wesley murmured into her ear.
Daphne shivered, because he was so close she could smell his aftershave and feel the warmth of his body. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who knows you and knows what you’ve been through.”
“Am I a bad sister to leave the party early?”
He shook his head and gave her waist a squeeze. “The only bad sister would be the one that didn’t understand why you wanted to leave.”
A wistful stab moved through her as she saw Gretchen and Hunter press their foreheads together, dancing close. “It isn’t that I want to leave at all.” A server walked past with flutes of champagne, and that awful gnawing returned to her belly. “But I need to.”
“She’ll understand,” Wesley said gently, and steered her out of the ballroom.
A short time later, they were in a car heading back to the city. The sun had come out despite the torrential snow earlier in the day and the roads were turning slushy. The driver cussed as he drove, but he went slow. “We might be here a while,” he called back to them. “Hope you ain’t in a hurry.”
“We aren’t, thank you.” She smiled at him.
“Merry Christmas,” he called back, then turned the radio up to give them a little privacy. Bing Crosby’s voice filled the quiet car and the driver rolled the window up, muffling the music.
Daphne leaned back against the seat, gazing out at the blinding, melting snow. Maybe she’d have herself a merry little Christmas after all. She had family again for the first time in what felt like forever. She was strong and on the road to recovery, however strict. And she was with someone she loved, even if it wasn’t returned.
She glanced over at Wesley and was surprised to see the look on his face was troubled. She knew him well enough to know that when his brows tilted just a hint and he drummed his fingers on his leg, something was bothering him. She reached over and touched his knee to get his attention. “You okay?”
He hesitated.
Daphne arched a brow at him. “No secrets between friends, remember?”
Wesley nodded, and then leaned in to her to whisper in her ear. “Didn’t like that your sister was serving alcohol at her wedding. Thoughtless considering she invited you.”
Aw, that was sweet. “She asked if I wanted her to shut down the drinks portion of the wedding, but she’d already had so many other things go wrong that I felt bad even asking. And the sweets were more tempting than the champagne.”
He nodded slowly. “I can make you a protein pancake when we get home. There’s an eggnog flavor that just came out.”
She made a face at the suggestion. “Protein pancakes are horrible.”
“Not mine.”
“Yes, yours,” she said, laughing. This felt good. It felt normal and right to be here with him, even if they were stuck in the back of a slowly moving car for the next few hours. Wesley had that hint of a smile to his somber face, and she wanted to coax it out even further. “When you leave,” she teased, “I’m going to binge on real pancakes for a day. I’ll gain two pounds and then go to the gym to work them right back off, but at least I’ll get the craving out of my system.”
He glanced down at his big hands, clasped in his lap.
Oh, shit. She’d said the wrong thing, hadn’t she? “Sorry, Wes. I wasn’t trying to throw it in your face. If it’s something you have to do, I understand. I don’t like it, but I’ll understand—”
Wesley nodded slowly, still gazing at his hands. He looked thoughtful, but she knew him. He was wrestling with something. He inhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and then exhaled and looked over at her.
“What?” she asked warily.
“My plans changed.”
She tilted her head, confused. “Your plans changed?”
He nodded. “I quit my job with the label.”
Daphne’s eyes went wide. “You what? Why?” Did this mean she was losing him that much sooner? God, February was bad enough, but to think of him leaving right away was devastating. Was this why he was so fidgety? She felt like crying. “Wes, why? Why did you quit?”
“So I can do this.” And he leaned over, tilted her face toward him, and kissed her on the mouth.
Daphne froze, shocked. She remained utterly still even as he ended the light kiss and pulled back. “I . . . don’t understand,” she breathed, even though her body was tingling with awareness just from that small kiss.
“I’m not supposed to fall in love with my clients, Daphne. But . . . I’ve been fighting how I feel for you for a long, long time. Ever since you came out of rehab and cussed me out the first time I made you do a burpee. You were so sad, but still fighting. I loved that spirit in you—you weren’t ready to give up. And over time, it’s been harder and harder for me to stop from touching you.” His hand moved to hers and he took it in his grip, caressing her fingers. “I’m supposed to be impartial and strong so you have someone to lean on, and I’m failing. I did fail.”
“Bullshit. You’re wonderful.”
“I’m the one that suggested to the label that I leave in February. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t trust myself to be neutral any longer.” His fingertips skimmed her knuckles in a touch that made her stomach flutter. “And then after we fought . . . I realized I was going about this all wrong.” His dark-eyed gaze held hers. “I don’t think you need a life coach any longer, or someone to slap your hand when you reach for the wrong foods. You’ve shown me you can make great choices. But I’m hoping that”—His thumb caressed her palm—“that maybe you’re ready to have a boyfriend and that you haven’t given up on me.”
Given up on him? Daphne flung her arms around his neck and planted her mouth on his. He was everything she’d ever wanted.
Their mouths met with a hard press, and she felt a shiver run through him. Excited, Daphne intensified the kiss, letting her emotions show as she took control of the caress, her mouth sliding over his and then coaxing his lips open so she could flick her tongue against his. The moment their tongues touched, it was like lightning through her body. Heat curled through her and suddenly she couldn’t get close enough, their mouths devouring each other and his hands roaming over her back.
The car slid, careening on a patch of ice, and they broke apart. Wesley held on to Daphne as the car spun in a slow circle while the driver cussed and a Christmas carol blared over the radio. Dazed, Daphne stared out the windshield, watching the street slide past as they did a full 360-degree turn and then stopped.
“Sorry,” called the driver. “Just hit some ice. You guys okay?”
“We’re good,” Daphne breathed. “I think.”
Wesley nodded.
The driver gave them a thumbs-up and then the car began to creep forward again.
“Well,” Wesley said after a moment, licking his lips. “I thought the world was spinning out of control with that kiss, but it might have been the roads.”
She giggled. “It can’t be both?”
The look he gave her was warm, so damn warm. “It can be.” He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheek. “You sure you want me, Daph? I’m not a prize by any stretch of the imagination. I’m a former drunk. I killed a man. I spent time in prison. And I’m not
the most fun person in the world. I’m not good at relaxing. I’m a stickler for discipline.”
“Discipline can be fun in the right places,” she teased, sliding a hand down the front of his jacket suggestively.
To her surprise—and pleasure—Wesley blushed. “I . . . haven’t dated anyone in a really, really long time.”
“Me either,” she admitted. “Not really, and not anyone I’ve had strong feelings for.” There’d been drug-fueled tour flings, but she couldn’t even remember them. They were part of the shameful past she’d left behind. “We’ll figure out dating again together.”
He gazed down at her face, stroking her cheek. “I worry I’m not good enough for you.”
“Why? Because of your past? You’re an ex-drunk. I’m an ex-druggie. The important part is that we keep it ‘ex’.”
“Because you’re a global superstar and rich and famous. Because you’re the funniest, smartest person I’ve ever met. Because you sparkle like no one else I’ve ever met and I’m just the guy that shoves carrot sticks at you when you want a cupcake. I’m probably all wrong for you.”
Daphne shook her head. “You’re the perfect man for me. You’ve supported me and been hard on me when I was weak. Everyone else lets me get what I want and that’s why I’ve failed so many times before. I never felt like anyone had my back in the past. They’d say they wanted me clean, and then they’d hand me drugs on the sly.” She smiled up at him. “You’re the first person to ever call me on my bullshit and . . . I kind of love it.”
“I love you,” he said, all seriousness and intensity. It took her breath away.
She crooked a finger at him. “Then come and show me.”
He leaned in, and his lips brushed over hers once more. Her arms went around his neck, and their mouths locked, and then the world was no bigger than the backseat of a cab creeping forward through icy streets. Their fingers interlocked, and Christmas music hummed through Daphne’s ears. Songs of hope and joy, of love and peace. Of family and sweethearts under mistletoe.
Yeah, she was good with all that.
Southern Texas heats up when four roughneck billionaires set their sights on love in a new series from New York Times bestselling author Jessica Clare. Keep reading for a sneak peek of
DIRTY MONEY
Coming soon from InterMix!
BOONE
It’s a blistering hot day out in West Texas. There’s not a fucking cloud to be seen, and it’s so dry that the dust puffs up under your boots as you walk. Reminds me of the old days, back when me and my brothers used to be the roughnecks out on the old, rickety rig that cost me a finger and Clay two toes. In a way, it’s kinda nostalgic. I’ve got my bandana on under my trucker cap to kill the worst of the heat, an old company t-shirt on with my jeans and shitkickers on my feet. I got grit on my face and a brutal sun beating down, and the land all around me is flat and open and bare of everything but the occasional rig in the distance. Ain’t a tree around for miles.
Feels good. Feels more like me than I have in a long time.
But the moment I see the guy in the suit show up, briefcase in hand? I know this shit’s gonna be trouble.
I take a swig of my water and watch the peckerhead rush across the endless landscape like he’s got somewhere to go. I hate suits. Hate guys that think they’re appropriate on a rig site. Hate wearing the damn things.
Just kinda hate suits in general.
Clay finishes chatting with a couple of the roughnecks leaning against a nearby pick-up, and spots the suit hobbling over toward us. He drifts over to my side, where I’m perched on the end of my truck bed and sits down next to me. “Who’s that?”
“Dunno.” I check the time on my watch. Ten minutes to go.
Clay crosses his arms and tilts his head, staring out. He chews on the toothpick in his mouth for a moment, then leans toward me. “I’d ask if it was the company man, but I guess that’s you and me, right?”
I shrug over at him. “Did Bates say he was sending someone?” Bates is our partner for this newest rig, just because I owed him a favor from way back when. It ain’t because I need the money. These days? I don’t need anyone’s money. But Bates did me a solid back in the day, and now his company’s got nothing but dry wells. So I told him I’d give him half the profits if he’d let me handle the dig site and the crew and all the shit that takes a brain. Bates? Nice guy, but not much in the way of brain. Better to let me do it.
“Dunno.” Clay chews on his toothpick again. “Maybe our boy here’s lost.”
I scratch my beard absently. “Seems like an odd place to get lost if you ask me.”
“S’pose we’ll find out soon enough,” Clay says. “You got your dowsing rods?”
I nod and pull them out of a back pocket. “We’ll get started in ten.”
“I’ll tell the others.” Clay hops back up, whistling, and the truck bed bounces as he does.
I remain seated, rolling my dowsing rods absently between my hands. My mood’s growing a little darker by the moment. I don’t like surprises. I sure don’t like a surprise on a potential well site that I’m in charge of. Gives me bad juju. I ain’t a fan of bad juju.
The suit finally arrives where our trucks are parked. We’re out in the flats, in the middle of nowhere. He hesitates, then looks around. I’ve seen that look before. He’s looking for the boss man.
That’s me.
After a moment, he hugs his briefcase closer to him and then heads toward me. “Is this the meeting site for the Price-Bates potential well?”
“Yep.” I roll the dowsing rods between my hands again, slowly. Should put ’em away. Shouldn’t be filling ’em with all this bad energy, but I can’t help myself. Need something to do with my hands, because the urge to jerk that briefcase out of his hands is growing by the moment.
He sizes me up, studying my form. I’m bigger than him, a helluva lot more tanned, and dressed like the rest of the crew. After a moment, he sniffs and glances around. “Are we waiting for Mr. Boone Price to arrive?”
I shrug. Clearly this fool doesn’t realize I’m Boone Price. It’s something I get a lot, and it shouldn’t surprise me after two years of this nonsense. People think a billionaire can’t have a beard, or tattoos, or wear a t-shirt. They think I should look like this peckerhead in the suit, all sweaty and nervous with his damn briefcase. “There a problem? Wasn’t told there’d be company men here.”
“Company men?” The man wrinkles his nose.
Hell. Does this guy not know anything about roughnecking? “You know, the boss man’s lackey. The shill. A tool. The company man.”
He frowns at me and pulls out a pair of sunglasses, then mops at his forehead with a linen hanky. “Mr. Bates sent me with contracts for Mr. Price. I’m to get him to sign things before the well is dug.”
“Did he, now,” I say flatly. “We aren’t drillin’ today, you know.”
“We’re not?” The suit frowns, gazing around him.
The man’s stupider than dirt. I glance over at Clay and the other boys, but they’re all looking at me with amusement. Clearly, this is my problem. I roll my dowsing rods between my hands again. “No digging today. You see any equipment?”
He turns. He actually turns and looks around. Like he wouldn’t see a fucking rig for a fucking mile away. They ain’t exactly stealthy pieces of equipment. Off to one side, my brother Clay snorts and presses a hand over his face, trying to hide his laughter.
I glance at my watch. Five more minutes. Damn. That means this idiot’s gonna sit here in front of me for five more minutes, looking for a rig that ain’t here.
The suit finally turns and looks at me again. “If we’re not digging, what are we doing here?”
I hold up the dowsing rods. “We’re picking where we drill.”
The suit stares at the rods I’m holding, then looks me right in the eye. Then, he
looks away over at Clay and the others. “Does your boss know that you’re using sticks for this?”
“It’s called dowsing,” I correct him. He’s got a snotty tone in his voice I like even less than what I’ve heard so far. “And it works.”
“Listen,” he says, clutching his briefcase to his chest and wiping at his forehead again. “I realize that Mr. Price had a big hit on oil—”
“So I hear.” Really, this would be amusing if it wasn’t so damn insulting.
“And I know they call him Spindletop, because he found a well that rivals that one—”
“Hundred thousand barrels a day,” I agree. I know this story well. It’s my damn story.
“And I realize that maybe because he came from working oil that he doesn’t mind if you do things in a haphazard fashion,” he continues, his lip curling as he looks over at me. “But Mr. Bates is not as foolhardy with his money and his time, and I’m here to see that Mr. Price doesn’t waste either of them.”
“Uh huh,” I say slowly.
He stares at me, waiting for an answer.
I check my watch. Two minutes until the top of the hour. Close enough. I hop off the end of the truck bed and nod at Clay. “Wanna get started?”
“Still got two minutes,” Clay says.
“Two minutes?” The suit asks. “Two minutes for what? Is Mr. Price going to show up?” And the idiot turns and looks around again.
“Bad juju if we don’t start at the top of the hour.” Clay smirks over at me. “And we need all the good juju we can get ’round here.”
“Our juju’s already bad,” I say, rubbing the dowsing rods with an oil-soaked cloth like I always do, so they get the scent of what they’re looking for. “Might as well get this dog and pony show going.”